He led the way towards the gates of Castra Chaeldon. Ridmark started to feel an itching feeling as they came within bow range as if his skin braced itself for the searing bite of an arrow at any moment. But while the orcs on the walls stared down at him, none of them raised bows or javelins.
A small postern door within the main gate swung open, and three orcish warriors in bronze armor emerged, swords in hand. After them came a tall figure in an elaborate red robe, head bowed within a voluminous cowl, hands hidden within the flowing sleeves.
Kalussa sucked in a startled breath, and Ridmark’s fingers tightened against his staff.
The figure was not walking, but gliding a few inches off the ground as it approached them.
It was the Maledictus that he and Kalussa had seen earlier.
“Ridmark,” said Calliande in a low voice. “That creature in the red robe.”
“A Maledictus,” said Kalussa.
“It’s undead,” said Calliande, “and wrapped in warding spells. I also think it’s a powerful wizard.”
“How powerful?” said Ridmark.
Calliande did not take her eyes from the Maledictus. “Powerful enough to at least have given Mournacht or maybe the Sculptor a challenge.”
Ridmark frowned at the mention of their old enemies. Both had been defeated, but Mournacht of Kothluusk and the dark elven lord called the Sculptor had been powerful sorcerers, and Ridmark had nearly been killed fighting them. If the undead orc in the red robe had been strong enough to challenge them…
Tamlin let out a sharp hiss. Ridmark looked at the younger man and saw that his face had gone white beneath his bronze helm, the fingers of his sword hand opening and closing over and over again.
“It can’t be,” muttered Tamlin. “It can’t.”
“Tamlin?” whispered Calliande. “What is it?”
The hooded Maledictus drew to a stop a few yards away and began to speak. The creature’s voice was deep and clear, and it spoke in excellent Latin.
“Greetings,” said the Maledictus. Tamlin flinched at the voice, his eyes narrowing. “I seek to speak with the commander of the force waiting on the road below. I assume he is among you?”
“I am,” said Ridmark. He took a step forward, staff in his left hand, his right hand ready to seize Oathshield’s hilt at the first sign of attack.
The robed creature did not raise its head. “And who might you be, sir? While I know all the prominent lords and knights of Owyllain, I fear you are unknown to me.”
“My name is Ridmark Arban,” said Ridmark. “Who are you?”
The Maledictus lifted its head and gazed at him. Proximity failed to improve its features. Leathery yellow-gray flesh clung to its tusked skull. Its eye sockets were empty, but harsh blue flames danced in their depths. Oathshield trembled upon Ridmark’s hip as it reacted to the dark magic within the creature.
“My name is Khurazalin,” said the undead creature. His lips did not move, his yellowed teeth clamped firmly together, but Ridmark heard the deep voice nonetheless. “Once a priest of the great Sovereign, and now a prophet of the new order to come.”
“You,” said Tamlin.
His voice was flat and hard, stripped of its usual bravado, and now filled with loathing.
The withered face turned towards Tamlin.
“You’ve met?” said Ridmark.
“He killed my wife in Urd Maelwyn,” said Tamlin, “but I killed him. I cut his throat and watched him die.” His sword hand kept opening and closing. “How did you survive? What black sorcery allowed you to return as this…this thing?”
“Foolish boy,” said Khurazalin, his voice calm. “Do you not yet understand? Death has no hold over the high priests of the Maledicti, for we are beyond death. Your wife had to die, and you still do not understand why. You have blundered into matters beyond your understanding.”
Tamlin’s face contorted with rage, and he started to step forward.
Ridmark held out his staff, and it bumped into Tamlin’s chest.
The younger man turned his furious glare towards Ridmark.
“Don’t,” said Ridmark. “This is a parley.”
“You don’t understand,” said Tamlin. “He killed my wife.”
Ridmark understood just fine. Mhalek had killed Aelia, and Imaria and the Weaver had murdered Morigna. Ridmark knew exactly what was going through Tamlin’s head and heart. He had almost gotten himself killed at Dun Licinia trying to avenge Morigna’s death. If Calliande hadn’t been there to save his life, he would have died.
“You killed him once,” said Ridmark, “and he clearly used necromancy to cheat death and come back again. If this parley goes bad, you’ll get the chance to kill him again. But if you attack him now, you’ll probably get yourself killed for nothing and a lot of other men with you. How will that avenge your wife?”
Tamlin blinked and took a shuddering breath. Then he nodded and stepped back, though his eyes remained locked on the undead warlock.
“You speak wisdom, Ridmark Arban,” said Khurazalin. “Have you no title? No lands? You speak Latin, but your accent is strange. You do not sound like a man of the Nine Cities of Owyllain.”
Ridmark shrugged. “I travel around.”
“Indeed.” Amusement entered that deep voice. “And you travel with a high elven weapon of exceeding potency at your side.”
Khurazalin was very well informed.
Ridmark shrugged again. “The roads are full of dangers. Bandits, urvaalgs, undead orcs, priests of false gods. A man has to be prepared.”
“Interesting indeed,” said Khurazalin. “You must be from one of the other human civilizations. Andomhaim, perhaps? Andomhaim would have been destroyed long ago, but if they appealed to the high elves for help…yes, perhaps they might have survived to reach the present day. And now a man of Andomhaim stands before us as the War of the Seven approaches its crisis. A most curious coincidence.” The deep voice hardened. “I do not like coincidences, Ridmark Arban.”
“Such as finding yourself face to face with a man whose wife you murdered?” said Ridmark.
“That, among others,” said Khurazalin.
“Tell me,” said Ridmark. “Was this parley your idea, or Archaelon’s?”
The robed shoulders shrugged. Odd that an undead creature would keep the gestures of the living. “It was my idea, but the Lord Archaelon agreed to it. He commands here. I merely advise.”
“If it was your idea,” said Ridmark, “why did you want to parley?”
Again, the undead creature shrugged. “Curiosity, mostly. I confess it is a vice of mine. The force of hoplites should have been destroyed, and they should not have been able to withstand that many undead soldiers at once.”
“It is traditional,” said Ridmark, “to exchange offers at parleys.”
“Is it?” Once more Khurazalin sounded amused. “Very well. I suppose there is no harm in the effort. What, then, is your offer?”
“I know you have a great many captives in your fortress,” said Ridmark. “I also know you’re planning to kill them all in six days for Archaelon to work some great spell of necromancy.”
“This is correct,” said Khurazalin.
“What is the nature of the spell?” said Ridmark.
“There is no harm in you knowing, since you cannot stop it,” said Khurazalin. “In his research Archaelon has discovered how to reproduce some of the powers of the Sword of Death. The Sword of Death, as you may or may not know, grants its bearer tremendous powers over the undead. Archaelon has discovered how to mimic some of those powers. He plans to raise a vast host of the undead, march to Aenesium with them, overthrow King Hektor, and make himself into the new High King of Owyllain. It is an unlikely plan, of course, but it does not hinder my purpose and may even assist it.”
“And what is your purpose?” said Ridmark.
“All in good time,” said Khurazalin. “First, what is your offer?”
“Surrender all your prisoners to us,” said Ridmark. “Ever
y single one you have gathered within Castra Chaeldon. If you do that, we’ll permit you, Archaelon, and your soldiers to leave. Go back to the Confessor or to King Justin or whoever it is you really serve.”
“Alas,” said Khurazalin, “given the scant number of soldiers behind you, the large number of undead in Castra Chaeldon, and the strength of the walls, I am afraid that I must decline. Rather, I will extend an offer to you.”
“Oh?” said Ridmark. “And just what is that?”
“Join us.”
“And why should I do that?”
“Because,” said Khurazalin, “the New God is coming.”
Ridmark said nothing, but Tamlin flinched as if he had been slapped. Evidently the words had particular meaning to him. Ridmark would have to ask about that after the parley.
“This New God,” said Ridmark. “What is it?”
“The future master of this world,” said Khurazalin. “Its advent is imminent. It shall rule this world and all within it, and all mortals shall be its slaves. Nothing you can do will stop its arrival. Better to bow down now and pledge your souls to the New God, for it shall reward you when it rises in power.”
“There is only one God,” said Ridmark.
“Yes, your human God and his Dominus Christus,” said Khurazalin. “A distant and dusty myth of the ancient past from another world. The New God will rise in majesty and power, and you shall bow to him, Ridmark Arban. You shall either do so willingly and with joy, or unwillingly with horror and regret.”
“I rather doubt that,” said Ridmark, “so I am going to decline your offer.”
“As you wish,” said Khurazalin. “Do as you will. You cannot hinder us, and you cannot stop us. Perhaps you shall have a few moments to regret your folly before Archaelon’s undead army kills you all.”
He turned to go, but Tamlin stepped forward. The orcish warriors escorting Khurazalin tensed, as did Ridmark, but Tamlin only took the one step.
“One question,” snapped Tamlin.
The blue fire in the empty, dead eyes turned to Tamlin. “Ask.”
“You were a priest of the Sovereign until the High King Kothlaric slew your false god,” said Tamlin. “Then why transfer your allegiance to this New God?”
Khurazalin said nothing, and then the undead orc laughed.
“The Sovereign is dead, is he not?” said Khurazalin. “Your great and noble Kothlaric Pendragon slew him in battle. But the New God shall be invincible and immortal, and it shall rule this world for eternity. Perhaps we shall see each other in the coming battle, Sir Tamlin. We have a score to settle, do we not?”
He turned and glided towards the gate, the orcish warriors falling in around him. Khurazalin passed through the postern door, and it closed behind him and his escorts.
“Come,” said Ridmark. “We’ve done all we can do here.”
“And what are we going to do now, pray?” said Tamlin. His voice was angry, but he was glaring at the closed gate.
“We have a battle to plan,” said Ridmark.
Chapter 17: Earth Magic
“You were married?” said Kalussa, her astonishment plain.
Tamlin did not want to talk about Tysia with anyone, and he certainly did not want to talk about her with someone like Kalussa Pendragon. Yet for once, there was no mockery in her tone, no arrogant condescension. She only looked sad.
“Yes,” said Tamlin.
He did not intend to say anything more. Ridmark and Calliande led the way back to the waiting hoplites. Both seemed lost in thought, considering what Khurazalin had said to them. Perhaps they feared what would become of their children in the hands of a creature like the Maledictus.
To his surprise, Tamlin kept speaking.
“Her name was Tysia,” said Tamlin. “She was a slave in the Ring of Blood at Urd Maelwyn. Her task was to tend the wounds of the gladiatorial fighters. We had known each other as children. We both grew up at the Monastery of St. James, but then the dvargir slavers attacked it. I thought she had been killed in that attack with my mother.” He remembered his mother’s final horrified expression, frozen forever in stone by the power of the Sword of Earth. “So, when we saw each other again in Urd Maelwyn…”
“Naturally, you feel in love and married,” said Kalussa. Sympathy from Kalussa was a new experience. Tamlin had saved her father’s life, but Kalussa had made it quite clear that she didn’t like him and considered him a reprehensible lecher.
“Yes,” said Tamlin.
“Why did Khurazalin kill her?” said Kalussa.
“I don’t know,” said Tamlin. “To this day, I do not know.” At the time, it had seemed almost random, as if Khurazalin had decided to amuse himself by killing a random slave. “Then you know what happened next. Sir Aegeus and Michael and the others were taken captive and brought to Urd Maelwyn as slaves. We escaped, and I killed Khurazalin in the process.”
He shook his head. Tamlin had thought that killing Khurazalin would ease the pain of Tysia’s loss. It hadn’t. He looked at Ridmark and felt a flicker of resentment. The Shield Knight was married to Calliande. Likely he was so confident because he had never known the pain of losing a wife to murder. If he had really understood, he would have let Tamlin attack Khurazalin.
Tamlin pushed aside the thought. It was an unworthy one, and attacking Khurazalin might have led to their deaths.
“The New God,” said Kalussa. “You must know what it is.”
“Hmm?” said Tamlin.
“You flinched quite violently when he mentioned the New God,” said Kalussa.
“I don’t know,” said Tamlin. “I think…I think my wife knew.”
“Find me again,” said Tysia in his memory once more. “The New God is coming.”
“How would she have known?” said Kalussa.
“I don’t know,” said Tamlin.
“Perhaps Khurazalin killed her because she knew something about this New God,” said Kalussa.
Tysia’s final words to him had been about the New God. Calliande had said that the Guardian of Cathair Animus had spoken to her of the New God before he had brought her here. And now the Maledictus Khurazalin said he had changed his allegiance to the New God.
Just was the hell was going on here?
“I don’t know,” said Tamlin at last.
“Perhaps we shall have some answers when Archaelon is defeated,” said Kalussa.
Tamlin didn’t know.
He just hoped Ridmark had a good plan because Tamlin could not think of a way to get into the fortress.
They returned to the hoplites, Aegeus, Parmenio, and Rallios walking to join them.
###
“Tamlin,” said Aegeus. “That wasn’t…that looked like Khurazalin.”
“Aye,” said Tamlin, his voice grim.
Calliande looked at the young Arcanius Knight. Tamlin’s gray eyes were like knives, his fury plain as he glared at everything and nothing. Despite her own worries, her heart went out to him. She had seen what the loss of Aelia and the loss of Morigna had done to Ridmark all those years ago, and it must have been an immense effort for Tamlin to hold himself back from attacking Khurazalin.
She sympathized with him, but she would not let that stop her.
Her concern lay with those who were still alive…which, God willing, included her sons.
“But you killed him,” said Aegeus. “You fed him three feet of that dark elven sword of yours.”
“Aye,” said Tamlin, still grim.
“Khurazalin is undead,” said Calliande. “When Sir Tamlin killed him, Khurazalin’s necromancy must have brought him back as…as whatever he is now.” Her Sight had seen the aura of power wrapped around the undead orcish warlock. Calliande could have defeated Khurazalin in a battle, but it would have been a close thing, and it would have taken the entirety of her attention and power.
Rallios grunted. “Then we seem to have found Archaelon’s teacher in the ways of necromancy.”
“Aye,” said Kalussa. “But it doesn’t ma
tter how Archaelon learned necromancy, and it doesn’t matter whether he commands here or if he is Khurazalin’s puppet. What matters is what we do next.”
“Agreed,” said Parmenio.
“Well, our course is obvious,” said Aegeus. “We lay siege to Castra Chaeldon.”
“To what end, though?” said Kalussa. “We cannot storm the walls.”
Tamlin nodded. “We lack both ladders and enough men for a siege or an assault.”
“We cannot starve them out, either,” said Parmenio. “The storehouses of Castra Chaeldon hold months of supplies. We have barely a few weeks of food among us.”
“Perhaps we can send a messenger to Aenesium,” said Kalussa, “asking my father to send reinforcements. He cannot let Castra Chaeldon remain in Archaelon’s hands. Or else King Justin shall arrive at the gates of Aenesium before the end of the year.”
“Even the fastest messenger would take five days to reach Aenesium from Castra Chaeldon,” said Rallios. “It would take even longer for reinforcements to reach Castra Chaeldon. Even if all goes well, it will take a minimum of twelve days for King Hektor to send help, most likely two weeks.”
“It is safe to say that we do not have two weeks,” said Tamlin. “We have six days until Archaelon can cast this necromantic ritual of his, and he will be far harder to defeat then.”
“Then what are we to do?” said Aegeus. “We cannot starve them out. We cannot storm the castra. We cannot wait for reinforcements. As loath as I am to leave our comrades in Archaelon’s hands, it is possible that we do not have any other choice. Perhaps we should retreat to Aenesium and return with help.”
“If we do that,” said Kalussa, “almost certainly Archaelon will kill the captives to fuel his necromancy.”
Kalussa, Tamlin, Rallios, and Parmenio all started arguing.
Ridmark caught Calliande’s eye, and she nodded. She knew exactly what he was doing. He often let people have their say, letting them argue and then suggesting what he wanted to do anyway. Calliande was surprised at how often it worked. It had worked on her more than once, come to think of it.
Sevenfold Sword: Champion Page 22
